Red Dahlias
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: John had never thought he would one day stand with his vampire lover and laugh like giddy teenagers, but it wasn't the first time his life had taken an unexpected twist. Johnlock, Vampire AU, P With Some P. Hints of dark!Sherlock.


John cupped a plump, red blossom in the palm of his hand and gently stroked a petal with his thumb. His pruning shears glinted in the dim light as he angled them towards a dead stem, snipping it neatly off the trunk of the plant.

"Waste not," he murmured to himself, angling the flower away so he could check for more overgrowth. The air in the greenhouse was the perfect temperature: balmy but not humid. His plants were doing remarkably well this season, sequestered away from the bone-freezing chill of London's winter. It was worth hitching rides all the way to the countryside to keep his garden healthy and flourishing. A bit of power-grid tampering, some clever rewiring and a few bribed security guards had kept his greenhouse—located in a forest several kilometres away from any sign of civilisation—from piquing the interest of the locals. Good thing, too. Now that the raids were becoming more common and food supplies were sometimes delayed, the herbs John grew were invaluable. They gave flavour to the otherwise lifeless rations the freemen were granted and keep meat from turning well after its time.

Privately, however, John could admit that it wasn't the herbs he loved best, precious as they were. It was his cherished Dahlias, with their oversized, spiky blooms and dark scarlet colouring. They were nearly garish, peppering the row of plants before him with explosions of colour, but he loved them. They made him think of ladies waving silk handkerchiefs from behind a green veil. He shouldn't be wasting resources on them with times as desperate as they were, but he'd grown them from tubers to blossoms and wouldn't dream of abandoning them now.

John wiped his sweaty brow and took a step towards the next plant.

Just then, the air shifted almost imperceptibly, and he froze.

He couldn't say what it was that told him, but he knew instantly that he wasn't alone.

And that meant he was fucked.

"Very good, John" rumbled a deep, smooth voice he knew all too well. "It only took you eight seconds to notice."

"Go away," John snarled without turning around. He gripped his pruning shears tighter and began viciously clipping the plant in front of him. If he took off a few too many of the older shoots, he chose not to acknowledge it.

"You know owning a private grow-house like this is strictly prohibited. They don't want the masses thinking they can cultivate their own food supply and gain independence from government rations. The Blood Parliament would string you up in an instant if they found out." God, it should be illegal to have a voice that deep. It sounded like polished rocks sliding together.

"Well, good job they haven't found out then." John heard something shift behind him and spun about, holding his shears defensively at his side. Sherlock was standing a few metres within the entrance, his hands shoved in the pockets of that ridiculous coat of his. Even in the harsh light emanating from the bare bulbs hanging above them, he looked beautiful. The shadows made his cheekbones more pronounced, and his eyes were luminous. He was wearing one of his signature too-tight shirts; this one was appropriately dark red in colour. His suit jacket and trousers had been tailored to cling to the long lines of his body perfectly. The whole outfit probably cost enough to feed John's old battalion for months.

John was torn between disgust and begrudging admiration.

Sherlock smirked like he knew exactly what John was thinking, and disgust began to win out.

"I don't want to see you, Sherlock," John said sharply. "I thought I made that abundantly clear."

"Yes, punching me in the throat was rather a strong indication that I'd lost your favour." Sherlock took a leisurely step towards him, somehow managing to look like he was lounging even as he moved. His limbs arranged themselves with the sort of liquid grace John would never be able to pull off. John shifted into a stronger stance just as the hair on the back of his neck prickled up. Even if Sherlock looked human, John's body could sense there was a predator nearby.

"You deserved that and so much more," John spat, trying to ignore the way his heart had begun to pound. Sherlock was watching him intently, his blue-grey eyes darting over him in flashes like a gleaming blade. John suppressed the urge to shudder as he realised Sherlock was doing that thing he did, working out everything about him just by looking at him. He could probably tell what John ate for breakfast that morning.

"Porridge with thyme," Sherlock answered immediately, smirking when John pulled a face. "Thyme you picked from this very garden, to be specific. You're certainly taking a big risk with this little hobby of yours, especially considering your status. The Parliament would take any excuse they could get to have you arrested, if not executed."

John shivered despite the warm green jumper he had on. Sherlock had a way of making his voice sound like a perfect blend of threat and seduction. It sent a thrill down John's spine, and he couldn't quite decide if it was a good one or not.

"I'm well aware of that, thanks. So kind of you to be concerned." It was puerile of John to speak so mockingly, but he didn't care. "I managed to work out for myself that the new government doesn't look too kindly on former members of the rebellion, even if they so generously let us live. While I'm positively _tickled_ that you took time out of your busy day of being a spoilt, pampered aristocrat to give me a useless warning, I'd be much obliged if you would bugger off."

"I know humans and vampires are allegedly equals," Sherlock drawled, still prowling slowly forward in that languid way of his, "but if you spoke so glibly to another, they'd have the right to levy a blood feud against you."

"Go right on ahead. I'm fresh out of fucks to give." A frisson of anger surged powerfully through John, and it made him bold. He wanted nothing more than to smack the smug look right off Sherlock's face, but although he'd had his fair share of skirmishes with vampires, he still knew it was a bad idea to hit someone several times stronger than him.

"I care nothing for the politics of my kind," Sherlock said acidly, raising the corner of one lip up into a ghost of a sneer. "I merely wish for you to refrain from taking unnecessary risks. It'd be a pity to see your pretty blond head dangling next to the other corpses outside Hangman's Square."

John took a deep breath and struggled to rein in his rising temper. Something about Sherlock—his looks, his haughty demeanour, his damnably piercing eyes—just made him lose control. "Oh, don't act like you care what happens to me. You said it yourself the day we met. You just think I'm 'interesting' because of my limp and history in the war."

"Psychosomatic limp," Sherlock corrected, his voice still infuriatingly cool and controlled even as John's rose. "And while that may have been the reason you initially attracted my attention, I'll admit I've developed a certain fondness for your company."

Sherlock was standing just down the line of flowers from him now, and all of John's instincts were screaming at him to run to safety. He ignored them and squared his shoulders, turning his torso to face Sherlock. He separated his feet into a solid stance and changed his grip on the pruning shears so the sharp end faced out. If Sherlock noticed his manoeuvres, he didn't let on. He merely leant over a plant until his nose rested just above a large blossom. John saw his chest move as he took a breath he didn't need. His pale skin contrasted sharply with the rich colour of the bloom, like blood spattered in the snow. It was eerily beautiful.

John shook his head slightly to clear it and reminded himself for the hundredth time that no matter what Sherlock looked like, he was dangerous. Very dangerous. "I'm shocked your kind are even capable of becoming 'fond' of humans. Don't we just look like walking meals to you?"

"Your ignorance is astounding considering how many vampires you must have encountered in the war. I cannot help my biology, John. I need blood to live, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"So, you think what you did the last time I saw you was acceptable? Sherlock, you _killed_ a man. You weren't feeding. You ripped his throat out!"

"You've killed far more men than me, dear soldier, and ones that gave you far less provocation than that scum I disposed of."

"Yes, all right, it was wrong of him to attack you, but there are plenty of humans who still resent the vampire invasion—" Sherlock gave him a sharp look, and John begrudgingly amended, "_migration_, and frankly I can't blame them. We went from being apex predators to being knocked down a rung on the food chain. You can't really expect us to cohabitate peacefully with our only natural enemies."

"I can expect you to be clever enough to know when the war you fight is futile." Sherlock's eyes slid down his body again, and John forced himself not to react. "Then again, with what dull, unobservant creatures you humans are, maybe I can't."

"Fuck you," John blurted before he could entirely think it through. "You vampires think you're these all-powerful demigods, but you're the ones who had to leave your hidden cities because your civilisation was crashing down on itself. Your stupid class system was causing riots, and you couldn't secure a steady enough food supply to support your population. _You_ needed _our_ help, and it would serve you well to remember that before you pull your high and mighty bullsh—"

In a flicker of movement too fast for John's brain to comprehend, Sherlock was in front of him.

"Do not," Sherlock hissed, his too-bright eyes narrowed into slits, "lump me in with the rest of my idiotic race." He fisted a long-fingered hand in John's jumper and hauled him up onto his toes with ease. John's mind went blank with terror as something in Sherlock's scent made goosebumps prick up on his skin. "They are indulgent, indolent brats who care for nothing but their empty politics. Mine is a mind that cannot be matched, and I will not stand here while some human child barely three decades old insults me."

John quickly squashed down his fear and flexed his hand around the pruning shears. He couldn't decapitate Sherlock with them—the only sure way to kill a vampire—but he could do enough damage that he might be able to escape if he needed.

Unfortunately, Sherlock noticed the movement and growled. "Please." He ripped the shears from John and flung them away with such force they shattered one of the glass panes in the wall of the greenhouse. Now John was defenceless, or very nearly so. If Sherlock wanted to kill him, he could do so easily.

"Why are you here?" John asked through gritted teeth. "Why did you follow me?"

"You've been avoiding me. I tired of it."

"I told you I didn't want to see you anymore. You ripped a man apart right in front of me. Did you think that would enamour me to you? How can I be friends with you when you treat my kind like we're disposable?"

The combination of Sherlock's scent and proximity was doing strange things to John's head. He was half-crazed with fear and dizzy with the intoxicating effect vampires had on humans. It was one of their natural weapons, as if they needed more. Humans reported feeling disoriented if they were around them for too long. John would never admit that part of him enjoyed the feeling, like he was drunk on nerves and giddiness. He would also never admit that most of the feeling had to do with Sherlock himself and not his ability.

"I've already explained it to you, John. He attacked me. I realise his attempt was rather futile—as if a kitchen knife could decapitate a vampire—but his intent was clear. I killed him in self-defence."

"You could have just handed him over to the police." John's voice was getting breathy against his will. His legs trembled from the effort of holding himself up on his toes, but he didn't dare ask Sherlock to release him. "He could have had a proper trial. He probably would have got life."

"And you think that would have been preferable?"

"Yes," John said firmly, "I do. It wasn't your decision to make."

"Look at you." Sherlock's voice had dropped to a pitch John could only describe as velvety with a hint of darkness. Annoyance was evident in his tone and the way his normally marble-smooth brow was creased. "So self-righteous. So convinced of your own superiority. It doesn't matter to you at all that had I been human, that man's attack would have killed me. I can't possibly be a victim because I'm so much stronger than you." He yanked John up higher to illustrate his point. Their faces were inches away, and John almost wanted to flinch at how intense Sherlock's gaze was. It was like staring directly into a blue sun. "The brave little soldier thinks he has the moral high ground because he's a killer with a cause. What does that make me? The monster under the bed?"

John was running on pure adrenaline now, too disoriented to think clearly about what he was doing. Sherlock could not only kill him with ease, but he could get away with it. No one knew about John's greenhouse or even that he'd left his flat. It would take days for Harry to think to stumble by and check on him, and Sarah wasn't expecting him at the surgery until Monday. Even if someone did miraculously find his body—or whatever was left of it—Sherlock could claim it was self-defence as easily as he'd done with his last victim. The word of a vampire was worth more than forensic evidence in court.

Instead of making John afraid, this knowledge sent white-hot rage flooding into him. He'd fought in the war for a reason, and even though they'd lost, his conviction was as strong as ever. If he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting.

"It doesn't matter what I think you are," John jeered. "You think highly enough of yourself for the both of us."

Sherlock snarled, and for the first time, John caught a flash of white fangs as his lips parted.

Horror crackled down John's spine instinctively, but that only made his anger burn hotter. "I didn't have a problem with your kind until you started treating us like we're inferior, like we're toys for you to play with. You get away with literal murder, and none of you so much as bat an eyelash. Go ahead and think you're better than me. Kill me. I don't care. You mean nothing to me."

"Oh, but that last bit's not quite true. Don't insult my intelligence by lying to me." Sherlock eased his grip, allowing John to finally place his feet flat on the floor, but then he started to push, backing John down the row of flowers. His hand felt like a steel bar forcing him back. "I saw the look on your face when we first met, the way your eyes lingered on me and your cheeks filled with colour. I said danger, and you came running, not because you were interested in the work I do but because you were interested in _me._ You spent ten years fighting vampires in the war, and yet you knew almost nothing about them except how to kill them. Then I showed up, beautiful and clever and exciting, and you fell all over yourself trying to impress me."

They hit the back wall hard, and John's head smacked against the glass. It took him a slightly-delirious moment to realise it was the pane that was rattling and not his brain. Sherlock was inches from him, close enough for John to feel how eerily cool his body was, though he could hardly concentrate on anything but those blasted eyes of his. John's heart was pounding, and his breath was growing ragged, and he was probably fucked beyond belief, and he felt _alive._

Distantly, as if the knowledge was entering his brain through a sea of molasses, John realised he was hard. The thought was so bizarre it flitted away almost as quickly as it had come.

"You need to get over yourself, Sherlock," John bit out, amazed at how level his voice sounded when it was all he could do to keep from trembling. Spots were swimming at the edge of his vision, and if Sherlock hadn't been holding him in place, his knees might have buckled. The intoxicating effect of Sherlock's presence was even stronger now that they were so close. John was suddenly hit with the mad impulse to giggle. "We've only known each other for a few weeks, and already you're acting like a jealous boyfriend. For all the harping you do about how pointless sentiment is, you seem to have taken the end of our friendship rather hard. You followed me out here like an abandoned puppy, begging for me to come home."

If John had thought that little flash of fangs from earlier was frightening, he was really in for it now.

Sherlock growled, _really_ growled, and his lips pulled back to bear his teeth. Long, white incisors slid out of his gums, gleaming in the dim light. It reminded John of the snakes he'd seen in the deserts of Afghanistan, the ones they'd catch and eat when rations ran low and things grew desperate. Their fangs only slid out when their jaws were pulled back. Otherwise, they were hidden deceptively away. It was a gut-wrenchingly appropriate analogy for his current situation.

John struggled in Sherlock's grip, self-preservation instincts screaming in his ears. He knew it was pointless, but he couldn't stop himself from wriggling like a trapped rabbit.

Sherlock pushed him back harder, pinning him soundly in place with a single hand. "You think this is sentiment?" His voice was a low promise that reverberated in John's ears. "I'll show you sentiment." His jaw opened wider, like he was preparing to strike.

John did the only thing he could think of. Vampires were much stronger than humans, but blood flowed through their veins as readily as any other mammal. Before fear could paralyse him, John reached up and wrapped a strong hand around Sherlock's neck, squeezing hard to cut off the flow of blood through his jugular.

If he had enough time, Sherlock would be disoriented by the lack of blood reaching his brain and would eventually pass out. If.

As things were, there was an incensed vampire preparing to bite him, and he'd just thrown the first, incredibly weak punch. Now if Sherlock claimed it was self-defence, he wouldn't even be lying.

John closed his eyes and began mentally preparing for his death.

…

Sherlock had known about the effect vampires have on humans since he was a child. Even when his kind lived in the shadows, he spent enough time around them to see it demonstrated on a near-daily basis. Humans grew obedient if they looked into his eyes long enough, giddy if he touched them and by the time he was close enough to bite they'd completely forgotten why they were nervous a moment ago.

Not John Watson. John looked into his eyes and then spat vitriol in his face. Sherlock had been holding him in place for more than three minutes now, and while he was clearly disoriented, he'd never once backed down. Even now, in the face of an obvious predator, John was squeezing a hand around his throat. He clearly knew it was pointless, but he still refused to give in without a fight. It was yet another reason why Sherlock, a man who'd never had a friend, let alone a _human_ friend, had chosen to keep his company. John Watson was a puzzle, and if there was one thing he loved above all else, it was puzzles.

Sherlock had another, much more intriguing ability, however. Humans had been saying for centuries that animals could smell fear, even tell if storms were coming, and vampires were not much different.

Sherlock could feel John's fear—the buzz of adrenaline pumping through his veins—and it was every bit as dark and heady as red wine. Sherlock didn't want John to be afraid of him, but he absolutely loved the smell of a frightened John. John smelt like action and the promise of adventure. He smelt like firing nerve endings and hair-trigger reflexes.

The best part, however, was the strong, unmistakable scent of arousal radiating off of him. Sherlock dipped his head forward, and a burst of it hit the air even as John struggled beneath his grip. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he breathed it in and felt it flood into his brain. He normally made certain to avoid letting the emotions of the humans around him affect him, but this was just _delicious._ Judging by the hand tightening around his throat, John wasn't even aware of it. He was too hyped up on nerves and fight-or-flight instincts.

Sherlock was more than willing to elucidate his situation.

He closed the last of the distance between them, using his body to lock John's in place. Before the human could react, he grabbed John's wrists, freeing his throat easily, and pulled them over his head, stretching John's body up into a long, sinewy line. Sherlock pressed every inch of them together, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest. John was breathing hard, his gasps audible, but he said nothing. He was too drunk on his own jumbled feelings to do more than wait for Sherlock to act, whatever that might entail. Sherlock smirked. Perfect.

He lowered his lips slowly, _slowly_ to John's neck. He could hear his pounding heart, practically feel the pulse of blood flowing in his veins, and as tantalising as it was, it was nothing compared to the second strong surge of _fear-rage-arousal-wantwantwant_ that radiated from John. Sherlock only barely managed to keep himself from shivering. He would never do this for anyone else. No other human would ever be allowed to crawl under his skin like this. He wanted to _devour_ John, to feel every inch of him and taste him on his tongue. If the emotions coming from the other man were any indication, John wanted much the same.

Sherlock was a hair's breadth above the tender skin of John's neck. The other man was trembling, vibrating against him as he trapped him in place. Sherlock couldn't resist. He parted his lips and breathed hotly over the skin, making the fine blond hairs rise and John let out a barely-suppressed gasp. The anticipation in the air was so thick it was palpable. Sherlock drew the moment out, letting his lips brush John's skin, soft as a butterfly's wing, skimming from collarbone all the way up to his jaw and back again. John made a helpless noise that shot straight between Sherlock's legs. He could only imagine how it must feel to have a predator so close, to anticipate a bite and get a teasing, achingly light brush of lips instead. Sherlock almost pitied the man, but now the smell of fear was quickly being overpowered by raw desire. It smelt like sweat and the tang of an oncoming storm.

Sherlock couldn't resist. He pulled his lips back and let just the tip of his fangs drag along John's skin. The effect was immediate. John made a garbled noise that was half desperation and half pleasure. Confused arousal exuded from him in dizzying waves. Sherlock's cock throbbed between his legs, and he had to force himself not to press forward for the friction he urgently wanted.

"God," Sherlock breathed against his skin, causing John to shiver again, "your little heart is _racing._" John's pulse was a loud, persistent staccato that vibrated in Sherlock's ears, alive and so very tempting.

"Sherlock," John said shakily, "what are you doing? If you're going to bite me, just get it over with."

"I should think I've made it quite clear by now that I have no intention of biting you. Well, not yet." He kissed John's neck, and the man jumped as if he'd been electrocuted. Another flood of desire hit the air, and Sherlock closed his eyes. He couldn't resist darting his tongue out to scent it. Delicious.

"John, you have no idea how good you smell. You're afraid, but that's only part of the equation. You _love_ this. You get off on it. You're aroused right now by my presence and the danger I pose. You're a writhing ball of adrenaline and lust, wrapped in the flesh of a man."

Sherlock planted soft kisses up John's neck and then raised his head until they were eye-to-eye again.

"Sherlock," John whispered, confusion clear in his blue eyes, "what are you . . . Why are you . . . I don't understand."

"I think you do, and when you're ready, I want you to ask me for what you want."

Sherlock almost laughed as he watched gears turn sluggishly behind John's eyes. Poor thing was so turned on he literally couldn't think straight. Eventually, however, John's eyes swept over Sherlock's features, from his sharp cheekbones to his mouth. They settled on the latter, and John absently licked his lips. The anticipation was taut between them, but Sherlock forced himself not to inch forward, to close that last maddening bit of space. He needed John to come to him.

John opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally let out a strangled breath, defiantly met Sherlock's eyes and said, "_Kiss me."_

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice.

He sealed their lips together, making certain to retract his fangs enough to keep them from cutting John. The other man's mouth opened readily, and Sherlock dipped into it, revelling in the warm slickness of it. John kissed him back with alacrity, melding their lips together and even tracing the shape of Sherlock's fangs with the tip of his tongue. It seemed the brave soldier had no scruples when it came to kissing the enemy. Then John caught Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, and Sherlock really lost it.

He pressed forward unthinkingly, rubbing his now achingly-hard prick against John's stomach. The man whimpered with surprise before pressing his own hips forward. His matching erection pushed against Sherlock's thigh, and he canted his hips desperately. Sherlock let go of his wrists and reached down to still the movement. John whined against his lips, but Sherlock ignored him, opting instead to roll his tongue smoothly into his mouth, languidly memorising the taste of him. John melted into the kiss, and Sherlock happily took the opportunity to do a thorough job of it. Within a minute, John was a pliant mass of heat pressed to his chest, his fingers clenched in Sherlock's shirt as if he needed it to ground him to reality.

Sherlock couldn't take it any longer. He wrenched away with a gasp. John was trembling against him, his mouth kiss-red and his blond hair dishevelled. His eyes were glazed, and he looked as well-fucked as Sherlock was about to genuinely make him. Before John could speak, Sherlock grabbed him by the jumper and yanked him away from the wall, his eyes quickly scanning the room. He spotted a cleared table a few metres away and hauled an uncharacteristically compliant John to it.

Sherlock shoved him against it and spent a moment sloppily snogging John into a quivering puddle of limbs before pulling back and looking him directly in the eye. "I'm going to fuck you, John." To Sherlock's immense pleasure, John shivered at the words alone. "If you don't want me to, you have this one opportunity to say no, but if you don't, I'm going to take you right here. I will throw you over this table and fuck you until you can't stand. I want your explicit consent because once we start I won't be able to stop." He leant closer and breathed, "You won't _want_ me to stop. Be forewarned, however: I'm going to bite you while we're fucking."

A brief flit of panic crossed John's face, momentarily cutting through the haze of desire, but then he closed his eyes and nodded. "I want this. I want you, Sherlock."

"Good." Sherlock shoved their hips together, perfectly fitting his clothed erection to John's. "I would have been outrageously disappointed if you'd answered otherwise."

…

John's head was swimming, and there was a very real possibility that he might faint. The room had turned into a green blur somewhere in the distance with only Sherlock's face in sharp focus. John had never been this hard before in his life, and if something wasn't done about it soon, he felt like he would burst.

Luckily, Sherlock seemed to be of the same mind. Before John could blink, the vampire divested him of his jumper, flicked his trousers open with practiced ease and shoved a hand into his pants, palming his erection. John couldn't suppress the loud moan that poured from him as clever fingers wrapped around his prick and gave it a leisurely stroke. Christ. John braced himself against the table as Sherlock stroked him teasingly, keeping the pace and pressure just light enough to make John whimper without giving him any real relief. John fought the urge to demand more, sensing that this was a test of sorts. Sure enough, after half a minute, Sherlock smirked at him, grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him about.

John's chest hit the surface of the table before he could so much as blink. A strong hand was forcing him down, and when he pushed against it, he was rewarded with the satisfying feeling of being shoved down harder. He heard Sherlock undoing his belt and zip behind him, and a brief jolt of panic shot through him.

"Wait, wait," he stuttered, half-incoherent with arousal. Sherlock made a frustrated noise, but John held up his hand and pointed at a nearby box. "There's Vaseline in there. Better than spit, yeah?"

A low, breathy chuckle sounded behind him, and John's skin tingled at the sound of it. There were footsteps, and then he felt something solid and slightly-too-cool press against his thighs. Sherlock.

"Why do you even have this here?"

"The hinges on the doors and some of the tools," John answered automatically. "I use it on them when they won't open."

He didn't know why that was funny, but Sherlock was laughing again. He was about to indignantly demand an explanation when he heard the sound of a lid popping open. It sent a fresh wave of arousal through him, potent and hot. Deft hands worked his trousers and pants down to his thighs, and then something—a knee, he suspected—inserted itself between them until he was forced to spread. He felt unbearably, delectably exposed.

John forced himself not to startle when a cool finger slid between his arse cheeks, probing at his entrance. The greenhouse was warmer than usual, so the Vaseline was better than room temperature, but it still felt a bit cool. John shivered when the first finger slipped inside him, working the ring of muscles gently open. Sherlock was surprisingly patient, moving slowly and only adding a second finger when he was sure John was relaxed. It was a strange feeling, having something working inside him, but Sherlock's steady movements, the push and pull of clever fingers, soon lulled him into an odd, hypnotic state. When Sherlock added a third finger, John didn't even notice until Sherlock suddenly curled them and rubbed unerringly over his prostate. John cried out at the unexpected burst of pleasure and tried to press up. Sherlock held him firmly down and rubbed it again, earning another startled moan.

"Oh God," John babbled, too stunned for coherency, "that, I just, _Sherlock_."

He felt rather than saw the other man shudder behind him, and then the fingers were removed. John was briefly disappointed until he heard rustling fabric, and the knowledge of what was going to happen next rocketed through him. Something large and more solid than fingers pressed against his entrance, and John tensed automatically. The hand on his back slid up to his hair and brushed gently through it until he relaxed. Then Sherlock rolled his hips forward, and the head of his prick popped into John before he could react. John made a strangled noise but held still, forcing himself to adjust to the new sensation. He felt stretched, as open as he could be, until Sherlock pressed forward again and another hard, solid inch of him sank into John. He forced himself to stay relaxed and hold still until Sherlock was fully seated, his hip bones digging into John's arse cheeks.

John had never felt so exposed in his life, but the stretching, burning sensation was somehow satisfying. Sherlock was thick and surprisingly warm inside him, holding him in place with their connected bodies. John could feel Sherlock shaking, as if he were just barely forcing himself to stay still, and the knowledge made his neglected prick twitch between his legs.

"God, _John,_" Sherlock breathed in a voice so broken it hardly sounded like him. John moaned in response before he could think, and Sherlock took that as permission to move. He rolled his hips forward in three long, deep thrusts, each one rocking John up onto his toes and earning a gasp. Sherlock leant down until his chest was pressed to John's back, pinning him to the table. He grabbed each of John's wrists and forced them down, and John's head spun with the realisation that he could do nothing but lay there and be fucked. Sherlock's hips were just barely rocking into him in a way that felt so intimate John wanted to scream. His whole body was covered, trapped under the weight of the man now fucking so slowly into him. John could barely stand how good it felt.

Warm breath tickled at his ear, "All right?" Sherlock sounded wrecked, his normally smooth voice trembling with effort.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John groaned, "please fuck me. I'm ready."

Sherlock started to move his hips faster, pulling a bit more out of John before thrusting back in, the soft sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the air. John shifted his hips just slightly, searching for a different angle, and Sherlock took the cue, using his body to move John's by degrees until he found the position that made him hit his prostate precisely with every thrust.

"Oh fuck," John cried out, "yes, right there. Fuck, Sherlock, _harder_."

Sherlock growled above him and set a brutal rhythm, slamming in and out of John with such force the table shook. John was incoherent within seconds. Sherlock's cock made him feel so full, and it was rubbing against his prostate almost to the point of overstimulation, but it was absolutely perfect. Pleasure pooled low in his belly, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. The deepness of sensation as Sherlock fucked him left him breathless. He was going to come, he was going to come soon, and he hadn't even touched himself.

"S-Sherlock," he said weakly, overcome by the sensation. He felt a familiar fire building low in his body, tingling just beneath his skin. "Oh God, Sherlock, I—I'm going to, _fuck._" Sherlock gave a particularly hard thrust, struck his prostate dead on and John's whole world exploded.

John came so hard he saw stars. The pleasure wracked through him, tearing a cry from his lips. He scrabbled at the table beneath him, desperate for something to anchor him, but it was useless. His bones turned to jelly, and he could only lie there as his cock pulsed between his legs for what seemed like an eternity. The aftershocks of the orgasm made his head spin, and he felt like he could lie perfectly still on that table forever.

Then a voice that was half lust and half malice whispered in his ear, "My turn."

…

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle when John visibly quivered at his words. The same man who'd been slinging abuse at him not an hour ago was now sweaty and panting beneath him, rendered speechless by what had obviously been an Earth-shattering orgasm. Sherlock pushed himself up on his hands, his prick still firmly planted in the warm body beneath him, and gave an experimental roll of his hips. John cried out, still sensitive, and Sherlock smoothed a soothing hand down his spine.

"There, there," he cooed, only slightly mockingly. "I have every intention of taking this slowly now that you're not itching to get off. You're so fuckable like this, John, so warm and pliable and open." He thrust smoothly forward again in a long, deep stroke, and John's fingers clenched at the table. "I could stay in you for hours, just like this." He pressed deeply in and ground his hips in small circles. John's breath hitched in his throat, his fingers scrabbling to get a good grip on the table. Sherlock took one of his hands and guided it to the edge above John's head. The other man took the suggestion and grabbed it with white-knuckled fingers.

Sherlock bit back a moan and started rocking slowly into tight, wet heat, leaning down to plant a kiss between John's shoulder blades. His skin was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat and tasted salty. His back rose and fell with his laboured breathing, making his muscle definition stand out beautifully. It'd been several decades since Sherlock had been balls-deep in a gorgeous blond, and he wanted to savour this. He pressed into John until his hipbones hit his plush arse and returned to grinding, keeping the movement deep and unhurried. The Vaseline made an obscene, wet noise as he moved, but it was nothing compared to the little gasps and murmurs that poured continuously from John. Sherlock had never heard anything so erotic in his life.

He loved a slow burn the best, when he let his orgasm build and build inside of him until it seemed like a light breeze would set him off. John was the perfect candidate for this, strong and healthy with plenty of stamina to help him survive a bout with a vampire. Most humans tired out too easily, but Sherlock could imagine having John on every flat surface the greenhouse had to offer before finally allowing him to collapse into a well-fucked heap. The idea sent a jolt of pleasure racing through him, and he had to still his hips to keep it from ending the fun too soon.

Sherlock folded himself over John again and nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling a lungful of the musky smell there. John smelt of dirt and sex and something else that was uniquely him. Sherlock could even smell the hot blood gushing just beneath John's skin. It made his mouth water, but he settled for kissing his neck tenderly.

"Tell me what you're thinking right now," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "I can't see your face to read you." He pulled out of John until just the head of his prick was inside him and then moved in quick, shallow thrusts, threatening to pop out of him only to push back in. The head of his cock had always been the most sensitive part. Sherlock shivered from the raw sensation, so potent he almost forgot to listen for John's answer.

"I'm thinking about how good this feels," John said in a low, shaky voice. "I'm thinking about how bloody gorgeous you are and how I can't believe this is happening. It feels like a dream, a stupidly hot, lewd dream." He took a shuddering breath as Sherlock changed angles slightly. "I'm trying not to think about how I should feel guilty for doing this. Like a traitor, or something. And I'm really trying not to think about you biting me."

Sherlock chuckled darkly and nipped at John's neck. The resulting yelp was a mixture of apprehension and disappointment. "Oh, but John, that's the best part." Sherlock started moving faster. He dragged his hips back until he was almost out of John and then plunged back in, sending pleasure shooting down his spine. John was moaning breathlessly, but Sherlock could tell from the way he gripped the table edge that he was trying to concentrate enough to listen.

Sherlock took pity on the poor man and pressed his lips right to John's ear. "Ordinary people labour under the delusion that a vampire's bite is painful. It can be, but only if the vampire wants it that way. When I bite my lovers, I do it when they're at the peak of pleasure, when their blood is swimming with lust and their brains are flooded with the serotonin I've fucked into them."

Sherlock suddenly amped up the pace, thrusting quickly in and out of John. The air filled with the sound of squelching lube, John's moans and the scraping of the table legs against the floor. "In the throes of passion," he bit out between clenched teeth, "our fangs secrete a special chemical, much like serotonin, that makes it so the people we bite feel pleasure instead of pain. I'm told it's quite remarkable to experience."

Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath as John suddenly thrust back against him, taking him deeper into his body. His left hand had disappeared from the table edge and was now working furiously between his legs. With an irritated huff, Sherlock realised what he was doing and quickly wrenched his hand away. John made a low, keening sound, but Sherlock held firm. "I'm impressed, John. Hard again already? I was expecting to have to work for it a bit more."

John whimpered beneath him, and Sherlock angled his hips in just the right way to hit his prostate again. The luxurious moan he received in return made desire for John bubble up in him even as he was buried in the other man.

"You want me to bite you, John," Sherlock said, his voice lowered to a mesmerising hum. "You think you don't, but you do. Why else would you have agreed to this with so little resistance? You want more than just my cock buried in you. You want every bit of me that you can get."

John was whimpering now as Sherlock mercilessly thrust into him, hitting his sensitive prostate over and over. Sherlock could feel his orgasm looming closer, preparing to wash over him in waves of fire. He let out a strangled moan and bit his lower lip when John started rocking back against him, matching his thrusts to pull him even deeper into his body. God, this human was going to be the death of him. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good.

Then John did the unspeakable. He managed to get his breath back enough to speak.

"Sherlock," John groaned, "Sherlock, fuck, so good. I'm going to come, I'm going to come again, and you haven't even touched me. Fuck me harder, _please._"

Sherlock's self-control snapped. He grabbed John's shoulders and used them as leverage as he fucked him fast and hard, making his earlier pace look like a bout of gentle lovemaking in comparison. John was howling under him, and the table rocked precariously on its legs. Sherlock was so close, so close, pleasure singing through him, and he knew precisely what he needed to push him over the edge.

"John," he moaned through gritted teeth. "John, let me bite you. Say I can. Fuck, please, say it."

Sherlock couldn't tell if it was the mind-blowing sex or the incredibly rare "please" that did it, but after only a moment of bleary hesitation, John nodded his head. Sherlock changed his pace back to a quick rocking of hips and leant down. He could already smell the strip of flesh he wanted, tender and succulent, right at the junction where John's shoulder met his neck. His pulse was jumping just beneath his skin, and Sherlock laved it with his tongue. John tasted like salt and soap and human. It was unbearably intoxicating.

With one final gentle press of lips to skin, Sherlock bared his fangs and sank his teeth into John's neck.

…

For the second time that night, John's world exploded. This time, it flashed bright red and sizzled around the edges. A feeling unlike anything he'd ever experienced before surged into him, starting at the point where Sherlock's teeth had punctured his neck and spreading outward into every nerve. His entire body was in a spasm as it tried to process this new sensation. John felt like he was falling into a sea of pure ecstasy. He came suddenly and with a strangled shout, some mixture of _Oh Christ_ and _Sherlock_. Sharp pleasure, so sharp it bordered on pain, rolled over him in waves, drowning him in the intensity of it. He could still feel Sherlock's cock, thick and full inside of him, but now it seemed vivid, more real somehow. It felt like they were melding together, the movement of their bodies forming a feedback loop that made everything more intense. John's cock pulsed as it spilt its load for the second time that night, but it felt disjointed from the raw feeling pumping through him.

Sherlock suddenly released him, tearing his mouth away with a deep moan. He pushed hard into him and stilled, clearly in the throes of his own orgasm. John rode it out in a daze, too distracted by his own comedown to pay attention to Sherlock's. The aftershocks lasted for what felt like an eternity, and when he finally came back into himself, it was as if he were waking from a dream.

He could hear Sherlock panting above him but hadn't actually seen the man's face in nearly an hour. John scrubbed a hand over his brow and finally worked up the nerve to say, "Would you mind getting out of me so I can stand up? I'm bloody well tired of being bent over this table."

There was a breathy chuckle, and then Sherlock slid gingerly out of him. John groaned and hauled himself up, ignoring his shaking legs in favour of stretching his back. He was going to be sore for weeks and in multiple places thanks to Sherlock.

John did up his trousers and ran a hand through his unkempt hair before daring to look at Sherlock. The vampire had righted his clothes with preternatural speed, but his lips were stained red and his cheeks flushed, obvious evidence of what they'd just done.

John's eyes widened, and he immediately clapped a hand to his neck. To his surprise, there were no puncture wounds, though the skin was noticeably tender.

"It's our saliva," Sherlock said in a quiet voice, answering John's unspoken question. He was gazing off into the distance with a contemplative look on his face. "It has an agent in it that facilitates quick healing. It's meant to prevent infection and ensure our food supply doesn't become diseased or otherwise damaged."

"Oh," John said. "That's . . . good." He wanted to feel awkward—he was, after all, having a post-coital conversation with a vampire he'd only known for a few weeks and had previously sworn never to speak to again—but his body was still humming with arousal and remnants of adrenaline. He felt too good to feel awkward.

There was one thing he needed to know for certain, however.

"Am I . . . er, am I going to turn into a vampire?"

Sherlock's attention snapped to him. "Don't be ridiculous. The process of creating a new vampire takes weeks and certainly couldn't happen from feeding. How the hell do you not know that? And more importantly, why would you agree to have sex with me if you thought I might turn you?"

John rolled his eyes. "I did know that, and I was reasonably certain it was true. I just wanted to check in case it was some form of propaganda from your government. It was a bit of a calculated risk."

"So was letting me bite you at all. Weren't you worried I'd drain you?"

"No. I don't quite know why, but I never questioned that."

Silence fell between them. John shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot. He had no idea where to go from here. He'd had his fair share of one-night stands, but this was a bit more unusual of a situation. He had no idea what Sherlock wanted from him, or even if he did want anything, and his own feelings were just as muddled.

Sherlock was studying his face with the inscrutable look John had come to associate with particularly complicated puzzles. He took the opportunity to locate his jumper—tossed carelessly against the back wall—and pull it over his head. He was blind for a brief moment as the fabric covered his eyes, and when he pulled it down, Sherlock was right in front of him.

"Jesus," John yelped, jumping back. "Warn a bloke before you do that, yeah?"

"Mike Stamford," Sherlock replied.

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"Yes, you should be. Do keep up. You went to uni with a man named Mike Stamford. You ran into him three days ago and mentioned you were looking for a flatmate."

John tried to keep his surprise from showing on his face. "Yes, I did. Sorry, how did you know that?"

"I saw him the next day at Bart's and mentioned I'm also looking for a flatmate. Imagine my surprise when your name came up. You remember how we met, yes? That murder suspect I was chasing was stabbed by his own accomplice, and you—an army doctor with extensive field experience—just happened to be walking by and saved him. If you hadn't, I never would have been able to extract the confession I needed to ensure a conviction. After that, I decided you were intriguing enough to show you some of my cases, but when I found out you also knew Mike Stamford _and_ also needed a flat . . . Well, to use the colloquialism, it 'sweetened the deal'."

"Hang on," John said, his head spinning. He should never try to have an actual conversation after frankly mind-blowing sex. "Are you telling me you're looking for a flatmate?"

"Well done, John. You've mastered basic auditory comprehension."

John chose to ignore that. "Is that why you followed me out here? You wanted to ask me to live with you?"

"Partially. Like I mentioned before, I was annoyed at your attempts to avoid me and also curious to see what you were so clearly up to. Subterfuge is not your forte. And I suppose I must admit I'd grown tired of your refusal to admit you were attracted to me. I had a working hypothesis that if I caught you alone and in a pleasant, secluded environment, it would facilitate the nascent of a physical relationship."

John's brain had to reboot several times before it could process this information. "So, you decided that the best way to get me to stop ignoring you was to seduce me and offer to share a flat with me?"

Sherlock, the cheeky bastard, was grinning, his fangs on full display. "Yes, and I do believe it worked quite brilliantly."

John rubbed his temples and sighed. He must be mad for even considering this, but he had to admit: life since he'd met Sherlock had been considerably less boring. "What would things be like between us, then? Would we be shagging? Dating? Just friends?"

"I would like to continue our physical relationship. It would be convenient to have a steady food supply, and I'm sure your noble heart would simply swoon at the concept of saving others from becoming my victims by sacrificing yourself. Anything else that might develop between us can be dealt with when the time comes."

"Hang on," John said, holding up a hand, "would you bite me every time we shagged? That would kill me."

"I only need to feed about once a month, and in the past when I've had cases I've gone so much as four months without blood. I would only take as much as you were capable of safely producing. If I need more, I can go to the banks like everyone else."

"All right," John said slowly, "so . . . you, what, fancy me? Are attracted to me? Want to eat me?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock swept suddenly forward and pressed their lips into a bruising kiss. John tried to resist, but then Sherlock's tongue darted out and slid wetly over his bottom lip. He was melting into the kiss before he even made the conscious decision to, and Sherlock made a point of snogging him into oblivion.

When they finally parted, Sherlock's voice had deepened into a sinful drawl. "I'm amazed you could doubt my attraction to you after what we just did. I've never fucked anyone like that before, and if you turn out to be as interesting as you seem thus far, I never will."

John shivered at the dark intent with which Sherlock said those words. As much as he wanted to recoil from the idea of binding himself to a vampire, he couldn't deny that the idea was appealing. Sherlock was brilliant and mad and beautiful and arrogant, and John could so easily picture himself dashing through the streets of London by his side.

There were still so many complications, though.

"If we do this," John said firmly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's bizarre features, "if we move in together and become partners or lovers or whatever we'd be, it'll be as equals. Not a vampire and his human snack. Not a master and a subordinate. Equals. You'll feed only from me, and if anything happens in the future like with that man who attacked you, you'll let the police handle it."

Sherlock started to protest, but John held up a hand. "Unless your life or the life of another is actually in danger, you're not to kill humans. Am I clear?"

Sherlock had a sour look on his face, but he nodded.

"Good. Now, I know you've just fed, but I'm starving."

"Yes, it must have been all the strenuous flower-pruning that worked up your appetite."

Both men broke into near-giggles that quickly escalated into full-on laughter. John had never thought he would one day stand with his vampire lover and laugh like giddy teenagers, but it wasn't the first time his life had taken an unexpected twist.

Sherlock recovered first and moved to grab his long coat from the floor, pulling it on with a flourish. "I know a place. Open late. Are you fond of Thai food?"

"Oh God yes."

…

The end.


End file.
